Phantom Limb
by sandymg
Summary: Sam is back. Sort of. A 6x01 drabble.


**Ficlet****: **Phantom Limb (a 6.01 drabble)  
**Author: **sandymg  
**Beta**: borgmama1of 5  
**Summary: **Sam is back. Sort of.  
**Spoilers****: **Through S06x06 to be safe  
**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. If I did, Sam would be fixed by now.

**Phantom Limb**

At first, it was like a missing limb. Not that Sam's ever had a limb missing. But he remembered reading that amputees often still feel their missing arm or leg and unconsciously check to see if it is still attached.

Actually, before that, was the confusion. The oddness of air, of space, _of_ _breathing_. Legs that followed his commands. He'd forgotten how to coordinate and fell several times before movement clicked back into place.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Instinct, he supposed later. Everything was later, in a way. Like thoughts were on a delayed reaction.

At first, it was about moving. Because that was a goal unto itself.

Then, the steps weren't far enough. Or fast enough. Could never be enough. Had to go further. Away. He couldn't say, now, when he'd stopped looking behind him. Maybe he'd walked backward those first few miles. Because nothing _nothing_ in front of him could ever match what came behind. But there was nothing there.

Nothing. Yeah.

In retrospect, maybe he should have seen it sooner.

At first, the steps. Then a car. And another. Not sure why he changed them. Just weren't right. Off. Too small and he had to get out because the roof was lowering and the door was pushing into his side and the seat was crawling up into him from below and he couldn't get out couldn't move …

Shrieking tires as he'd swing the vehicle onto the shoulder. Leap out.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Funny though. He never ran. Why was that?

Where would he run to?

And why didn't it matter?

The sign said South Dakota and that meant Bobby. That _name_ meant something but he had to blink and shake his head even as his foot pushed the gas pedal down because he had to do this. He paused for a moment, foot easing up, until the _why_ blanked out again and the pleasant fog of 'next step' and 'makes sense' and 'see Bobby' was all there was.

At first, Bobby stared, shocked, and Sam knew there were things to be done. So he did them slowly and clearly and said _it's me it's me it's me_. Except the words were only sounds. Meaning obscured under blood and holy water and Sam never said _It's Sam_. And nobody seemed to notice. Not even Sam.

Then Bobby hugged Sam. Arms strong and warm and should be safe. Should be kind. Should be want. And that first phantom thing stirred in him. The missing limb ached and wound itself around the older man's body and pulled just a little. Except. Sam hadn't moved. Was still and calm and standing there because this made sense and he'd get clean and clothes and money and could hunt. Hunting. He knew that. Hunting hadn't changed. His head was filled with it in thousands of catalogued ways. Listed alphabetically, cross referenced. Clear and concise. Ahh. Step step step.

Bobby asked about Dean. Sam blinked. The limb shivered.

Remembered Dean.

Dean was alive.

Sam said, "Where is he?"

"With Lisa an' her son."

Sam nodded. He didn't have anything more so he shook his head again. Bobby stared, eyebrow arched. Sam looked away. It was the first time he thought about his words. Considered them, rolled them on his tongue before freeing them into the air. It was familiar, this slow speech. Sam grinned, slow and easy. That was the second time the phantom limb made itself known. A primal yell.

Residual from … _there_.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Sure, Bobby. Look. Let's leave Dean alone, okay?"

Bobby shook his head instantly. "What? You gotta tell 'im—"

"No. I don't. He's … got a family now. What he's always wanted. Lisa, Ben … they'll be good for him."

Bobby continued to protest. Sam's eyes narrowed. The air was flat and slightly stale. Old coffee and grease and a bit of sour sweat. This was good, right? This was important. Why … why was he … The scents vanished as if a window had suddenly been opened. The fire in the older man's eyes let out an impotent heat. Sam saw. But it couldn't warm. He inhaled the tasteless air. And it didn't matter.

"I'm final on this Bobby. We leave Dean alone." Work it through. Say it right. Patterns swirled and rearranged, the memories converging and sliding along a scale until the proper cue was up next. Step. Step. Step. "He got out, Bobby. You … want that for him. Right?"

Sam could not feel, but he could see. Liquid softened Bobby's gaze. And Sam's calm grin returned. It did not satisfy. It wasn't even his. But it was the last thing his facial muscles remembered. And unlike that ghost limb, it was very strong.

_**fin**_


End file.
